Simply Ian
by Volcanic Lily
Summary: What they saw: Ian the backstabber, the scheming Lucian, the merciless Kabra, the scapegoat. Evil to the core, just like his mother. Maybe even a Vesper traitor. What he wanted to be: simply Ian. The Cahill. A truly good person, or at the very least, someone who tried to be. "Because it wasn't easy, and it wasn't fun, trying to rebuild an entire structure from the ground up."


**Author's Note: So, for all those who were wondering, no, I am not dead. In fact, I haven't even been inactive. I've been very busy, having posted over 20 chapters so far on my Hunger Games multichap! (If you haven't already, go check it out, and I'll love you forever... in a non-creepy way. XD)**

**So, like with all my great stories (not really), this began as a 100-word drabble and grew and grew into the 3,000+ word drabbly fic you now see on your computer screen (or phone/tablet screen, or whatever). Warning: SOME SHATTERPROOF SPOILERS. (Yeah, like half the Internet doesn't already know, anyway... *rolls eyes*)**

**So, as you all know, Ian is a _tough _character to write right. He's so- I don't know- complicated. So here, I ramble and sometimes speculate on some of the facets of the eternally complex Ian Kabra. *cue applause* *cricket noises* ...Okay, let's just start the story. XD**

"_I hate you, Ian Kabra_!"

Not exactly the words that one wanted to hear from the girl that he still kind of, sort of, maybe, almost liked a little bit in a pseudo-romantic sort of way.

Ian gently closed the laptop, then sank back in his chair in a way that completely desecrated everything that his mother had ever told him about not slouching. He didn't feel overpowering despair or anything of the sort. Only numb acceptance, as if he had anticipated that this was coming.

It was official, then: everyone hated him. No one trusted him; no one even pretended to trust him anymore. Everyone thought—not even suspected, but were absolutely, positively _certain_—that he was the traitor in their midst. Everyone. Even the girl whose unshakable, ingenuous faith usually persisted far past the bounds of rationality when it came to her precious family members.

Everyone thought that he was the liar, the backstabber, the heartless betrayer of Cahill secrets. After all, he was a scheming Lucian. Not only that—he was a Kabra, a "cobra." It wasn't exactly irrational that their small minds would make the jump and promote him to "Vesper mole."

And it irritated him. All right, so perhaps he wasn't always the kindest, friendliest person on the planet, and perhaps he had stabbed a relative or two in the back in his sixteen years. (What Cahill hadn't, though? Why was it only him who still remained branded for life as an incorrigible backstabber, when some of them had done things just as horrible?)

That didn't mean that he would betray his entire family. Who did they think he was—his mother?

Oh. That was right: they _did _think that he was like Isabel. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," they would mutter under their breath whenever he backslid a little, whenever they thought that he wasn't within earshot.

And perhaps the figurative apple _didn't_ fall too far from that hypothetical tree. Perhaps Ian _was _a bit too much like his horrible mother in some ways. Perhaps he smirked the way she did; his amber eyes gleamed in a similar way when he thought he was being oh-so-clever; he shared her ardor for the finer things in life. Perhaps he spoke with the same passion lighting up his face about poisons and tricks of manipulation. And perhaps he even wrinkled his nose the same way, as if he'd smelled something sour, whenever he passed someone whom he perceived as "inferior" to himself.

But what they never stopped to consider was… perhaps he had been taught to be this way by her. Perhaps she had instilled these behaviors in him, practically from birth, and he didn't know any other way. Perhaps he _wanted _and _tried _to become different from the abhorrent woman who called herself his mother—and just didn't know how.

They didn't know this; of course they didn't. Because Ian detested pity. He didn't want their sympathy, didn't desire their comforting words, didn't need them to be cordial to him just because they felt sorry for him.

He would never admit how difficult it was to be really, truly good when all of your life, you had been trained to be bad. He wouldn't admit that his upbringing by his cruel mother and his uncaring father had left him with scars—scars that no one else could see, but that _he _could see, and they shamed him.

He refused to let them see any weakness in him, that he was still reeling from his mother's ultimate betrayal and that he was struggling to change himself, because he didn't want to be perceived as vulnerable in any way. _She _had trained him to never show any weakness, and now, that defensive instinct was ingrained in him so deeply that it seemed the only logical thing to do.

Ian knew that he shouldn't care what the others thought of him, anyway. They wouldn't see any good in him, anyway, he told himself—they could only see the evil that they wanted to see. Ian and his sister had somehow been elected as the scapegoats for all of the Cahills' past crimes: in order to alleviate the guilt in their own consciences, the others seemed to have transferred all of their sins onto the Kabras, the "sly, backstabbing Lucians," so they would be free to go on being the best of friends with Amy and Daniel and the Madrigal hierarchy without blood on their hands, sin-staining their souls and their dreams.

So they told themselves that Ian Kabra was horrible, wicked, still not worthy of an ounce of their trust. No matter what he did and how hard he tried, he would always be evil to them. Always. This called to mind the question of why, then, he should even be bothered to try anymore.

"_Face it, Ian, they tolerate you, that's all. In their minds, you'll always be an outsider_."

His mother's acerbic words echoed in his mind now, the way they had for days and nights on end, penetrating his thoughts, his dreams, everything he did. She was right, he thought—the other Cahills had never liked him and had never treated him like family, and they never would. Not really. Not even Amy—the optimist, the Pollyanna, the white sheep of the Cahill family—believed in him anymore; she hated him, she said, and she seemed to have truly meant it. He was an outsider in the Cahill family now—no, a pariah, even. Hated even when he had done nothing lately that warranted it.

So, in that case, why was he still trying to change himself to please them? He had lived a much happier existence when he was nothing more than a rich, pompous little brat—he would admit to himself now that this was exactly who he used to be—who lived in a fancy mansion with his mother and father who spoiled him and admired in him the very traits that those Cahills despised. It had been so much easier to get ahead in life by doing so-called wicked things and by not caring whom he had to step on to get what he wanted. Much easier than this "good" business.

Why didn't he just go ahead, then, and prove them all right? Prove that he really could be as terrible as they already believed he was? To spite them?

It was as if she had read his mind: just as Ian began to entertain these thoughts, the cellular phone at his side began to ring. The caller ID displayed the name: "_Isabel Kabra_."

With a spurt of apprehension, he answered. "What?"

"Now, Ian, I know I raised you better than that. Is that any way to greet your own mother?"

The all-too-innocent purr in her voice raised the hair on the back of his neck, but he didn't change his tone. "What do you want?"

"I was just wondering how you were taking the realization that I was right: no one trusts you. They won't even tolerate you anymore."

Ian was taken aback, both by her words and by the calmness in her tone that didn't suit what she was saying at all. "How did you…?"

"I'm your mother," she said. "I know everything. So, tell me, Ian… Are you still going to delude yourself, holding out hope that they'll take you back, accept you into their little fold at last? Go back to following them around like a pathetic, lost puppy, hoping that you'll find someone who will take you in?"

He flinched at the biting scorn in her voice.

"Or," Isabel continued, "Are you going to come back to where you really belong, with your mother? I'm willing to take you back, son, if you're really remorseful. You could come be with us instead."

She didn't have to identify the "us" she was speaking of. Ian already knew all too well who they were, and this knowledge sent a shiver like ice cascading down his back.

"Speechless?" said Isabel. "I understand, it's a sudden offer. But I really am willing to forgive you and welcome you back with open arms. We would accept you wholeheartedly, Ian. We'd never even dream of turning you away like those _Cahills _would…."

She paused, allowing the words to sink into Ian's brain. He had been taught Lucian strategy by her, and he knew when he was being manipulated. But even so—even as pathetic as he knew it was—he felt a pang of longing for those bygone days when they had actually felt like a family, if a vaguely imperfect one. He missed the feeling that he truly belonged to something greater than himself, a group that didn't cast dubious glances at him every time they thought he wasn't looking.

"I'll give you a minute to make your choice, Ian. But I think that we both know which one would be the best for you."

Best for him. Best for him? What _was _best for him? He wasn't sure that he knew anymore.

Ian really had been deluding himself, acting like a pitiful puppy, he realized—"sit, stay, fetch, good boy."

"_Sit here on your bum all day in the Comm. Center, Ian, while we go out and have all the fun, gallivanting all over the world, like you used to do back when you were _somebody."

"_Stay here with these people that you dislike almost as much as they dislike you, Ian. Why? Because I asked, and I'm Amy Cahill, and I'm the leader of the family now, so you have to do what I say. And also, because you think I'm pretty and won't admit it, and you're a sucker for my good opinion and everyone else's now, even if you won't admit to that, either_."

"_Fetch all this information for us, Ian—oh, but don't expect to be thanked for it. After all, you owe us, after all that you did to us. You _owe _us, Ian_."

All right, so he was being a bit right-brained about it all. Amy would never say those things, and surely someone as kind-hearted as she was would never wittingly mock and manipulate him that way, anyway.

But somewhere in the back of his mind—pretty or not, he really did resent her. While he and Natalie sunk further down into the swamp of poverty, she and her imbecilic brother were suddenly wealthy and didn't even care. Amy got to be the head of the Cahills, even though she didn't know the first thing about leading, and even though he, a Lucian, had been trained for such authority since he could hardly walk. And whether she meant to or not, every time she looked at him, her wide jade eyes said it as plain as day: "_You still owe us. You'll never be able to completely make it up to us. After everything you've done to me and Dan_…"

Because of that, he didn't talk to her as much as he might have. Because as a Kabra, he hated owing anyone for anything, no matter how trivial or how significant. He had been reared to detest being in anyone's debt, and especially to hate feeling unworthy in anyone's presence.

On the line, Isabel cleared her throat impatiently. "Well? I'm waiting."

Ian found that he was chewing nervously on his lower lip—yet another thing that he had been instructed not to do. Why was he even having such trouble with this decision? For a changed man, a good one, it ought to have been easy.

But it wasn't. Ian knew that he should have declined immediately and not even paused to consider the ludicrous offer… only it didn't strike him as being as ludicrous as it probably should have.

_Mother—I mean, Isabel—is right in saying that they hate me. And I'm tired of being a little errand boy for Amy and Daniel when they'll never appreciate me. "We'd never dream of turning you away," she says_….

He knew that he shouldn't for a moment believe the words that came from that serpentine tongue, but he couldn't help but feel their draw nevertheless. Evil or not, she was still his mother. Once upon a time, he believed that she had truly cared for him. Maybe, deep down, she still did….

Everyone expected him to be a Vesper spy, anyway; they all loathed him. Why shouldn't he prove them right, really, by becoming even worse than they could have ever imagined? By revealing everything he knew about each and every one of them to the Vespers?

Oh, the secrets that he could tell them. About Amy's blind and trusting nature and, better yet, her fear of fire that still caused her nightmares to this very day (as she had once revealed to him—back when she, at least, still held some semblance of faith in him—in a late-night video conference, after she had woken up in horror from one of them and needed someone—anyone, obviously, it didn't matter who—to talk to). He could tell them about Daniel's asthma, about the growing darkness that Ian, who would be able to identify the signs from experience, could tell was building inside the boy. Or he could mention the claustrophobia that Sinead had gained since the Franklin Institute explosion….

_No_. No, he couldn't. Wouldn't.

Again, he reflected on that unworthy feeling that he always seemed to get in the presence of Amy Cahill and even her brother Daniel. He remembered exactly why he had cancelled his flight to Boston for the final time on that night so many months ago, cancelled his every plan to confess to Amy: because he was still an awful person, who had seen a chance to apprehend his sociopathic mother and had let it slip right through his fingertips. Who hadn't felt like he deserved anything that was so good and innocent and trusting, when surely he would only ruin it again.

This, this moment right here, was his second chance to prove that he _wasn't _that awful, weak, mindless "Mummy's boy." Here, again, he stood between Isabel and the exit—he, Ian, and Ian alone; not Ian the Kabra, the traitorous Lucian, but simply Ian, the Cahill. And this time, he wouldn't give in. This time, he would say "no."

This time, he would prove to himself, once and for all, whether or not a person could truly change.

"Are you absolutely insane?" he said. "What in the world would bring you to the conclusion that I'd ever want to come back to you?"

Isabel seemed to recoil, shock blatant in her voice. Shock that betrayed much more than she would have liked: she had honestly believed that her son might rejoin her—perhaps even hoped. But Ian had shattered that hope like she had shattered his childish faith in her—and it felt good.

"They don't have to trust me. They don't even have to like me. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that…" Uncharacteristically, he fumbled for words. "That _I _like me, Isabel, and I like myself much better when I'm far away from you."

And he snapped the cell phone shut.

Then, he sat there in stunned silence for a minute or two. There was no feeling of numbness this time; the surprise was real and even vivid inside him.

He had done the right thing—actually done the right thing, and felt that the words were right as he said them, and… It _felt _good.

He had been lying through his teeth, of course. Of course he wanted to be trusted and liked, and he wanted to belong with the rest of the Cahills. Their opinions of him did matter, much more than he was willing to let on to anyone. Secretly, he wanted them to acknowledge the effort that he was putting into trying to change, and he wanted them to appreciate it. Because it wasn't easy, and it wasn't fun, trying to rebuild an entire structure from the ground up.

But perhaps there was some truth in the words that had been blurted out before his brain could even offer its consent: what should have been the most important was that Ian himself liked the changes that he was trying to make. And he did. Deep down, he realized that he did want to be a better person, even if it wasn't always easy as ordering servants around and threatening people with dart guns. He wanted to be better. Not only for Amy or Daniel or the others. For himself, as well.

He flipped open his laptop again and opened up his e-mail account. The Cahills needed to hear about this, about Isabel's proposition and his refusal…

"_Dear Cahills_."

No. No, the Cahills as a whole had never put much trust in him, ever, even fleetingly. Why expect them to now?

"_Dear Amy_." That was better. She, at least, had had faith in him for a moment in time, until someone—he wasn't sure who or why—had decided to dash that faith.

Then, he realized that this still wasn't a good opening. He was still upset with Amy for doubting him when he was innocent in the first place. She wouldn't get a "dear." She didn't deserve a "dear."

"_Amy_," then. Simply "_Amy_."

Ian stared at this single word for a long time, until the letters began to swim into a nonsensical jumble before his eyes. Why was he writing this? Was this just him hopelessly seeking recognition again, hoping for someone to boost his pride?

Once upon a time, he might have needed that lift in self-esteem; once, he had been more insecure than he would have willingly admitted, a sucker for the good opinion of his parents, then for that of his Cahill peers. But he didn't need to gloat to anyone about how far he had come today. He knew, and Isabel knew, and better yet, it enraged her. And that was all that really mattered.

Anyway, Amy and the others would find out the truth about Ian sooner or later, and when they did, Ian liked to think that there would be a lot of groveling involved.

For now, there were more important matters on his plate. Like the ever-pressing question: if Ian wasn't the Vesper mole, then who was? Someone else with close ties to Amy and Daniel… He needed to narrow down that list of suspects, and quickly. He could already imagine the Cahill siblings' reactions when they realized that Ian was innocent after all and that he had managed to stop the _real _traitor singlehandedly.

Again, he envisioned lots of groveling.

**Author's Note: ...Well, some things never change, at least.**

**I feel like this got kind of sappy near the end. I hope not. If so, I may wake up tonight with a dart gun pressed to my head... Gulp. XD**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this, and if you didn't, well, I wrote it in about an hour and only looked over it once, so there's my requisite excuse. Please review! :D**

**~Lily**


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